The Saga of Ashla
by Corlath1
Summary: The young Dovakiin sits in a carriage, on her way to her execution. But something has changed in the winds of time- and it seems that the god Akatosh has seen fit to bless another mortal with the dragon blood, abandoning she who was meant to be born with it. Without a dragon's soul the woman who should have been Dovakiin will have to fight to survive in the harsh tundra of Skyrim.
1. Chapter 1

Ashla fell back into her chair, and looked very, very slowly down to her breast, where the twelve-inch Elven blade had pierced her heart. She watched, fascinated, as the warm wet liquid from her chest stained her favorite blue dress a deep red. She froze like that for a moment, in shock, not quite believing what had happened, and after perhaps half a second, dropped her bread, halfway to her mouth, into her soup. The rest of the people at her table stared and sat speechless, before the screaming started. Her two daughters, Runa and Luica, began to yell, "Mama!", incessantly, running up the head of the table where she sat. Serana, the woman she loved, beautiful green eyes full of so much shock and anger, simply stared, frozen in place. Valdimar, her steward, and longtime friend, drew his sword and bore down on the attacker- who was she? Ashla turned slightly to her left, and saw brown eyes wide open with shock. As she looked down, she saw that the hands which held the knife were attached to those eyes, that terrified face. Who was she? It was all getting so hard to remember now. All those little, unimportant things that loomed so large then seemed so very pointless. Once again she looked down to the blade buried in her chest, and her only thought in her shocked and terrified brain was, "_Damn it. It seems I've ruined my dress." _Followed by, "_How did it come to this? Where did this come from?" _She knew precisely where it had come from- and as her life began to float before her eyes, she began to slip out of her chair, and could only think about where it had begun.

It was a sunny day in Falkreath Hold, so unfit for the bloody work that would no doubt take place before the day's end. Some idiot Nord was pounding on her shoulder- "Hey, are you awake?"- and Ashla did her best to ignore him. He was some idiot horse thief who had gotten caught in the same ambush she had- damn, she had been so careless- and had ended up here, bound and gagged, held prisoner by the Imperial Legion on a carriage going gods knew where. Another Nord, apparently named Ralof, started an argument with the idiot thief. Ashla listened closely, and learned that he and the rest of the heavily muscled Nords who filled the carriages ahead of and behind them were Stormcloaks. "_Well, that explains a lot," _she thought to herself, "_but it also means that my chances of getting out of here alive are slim to none." _Ashla had heard of the Stormcloaks before- who hadn't, in her homeland of Hammerfell? The Nords who fought against their own Empire, angry over the change that the damn Thalmor had wrought upon their country. There had been a Civil War between the Stormcloaks and the Imperial Legion- little better than Thalmor enforcers these days- for almost two years now, or so the stories that trickled in from the east said. If they were true, and she was truly riding in a carriage with a group of Nordic rebels, it meant that her Legionnaire captors probably thought that she and the horse thief were among them. And if the Empire thought they were rebels, well, it didn't take too much imagination to figure out what would happen next. She leaned her head back against the side board of her carriage, adjusted her gag with her wrists to let her breathe a little better, and closed her eyes. If this was to be the last day of her life, she was going to enjoy it. She tried her best to put all thoughts out of her head, and calm her mind, enjoying the last sounds of nature she would ever hear, as her father had taught her. She heard his voice in her head, "_A true warrior does not face her death whimpering like a dog. She puts away her fear, and faces it calmly, with dignity. She impresses her foes with her honor and discipline, while keeping a clear head, searching for a way to survive. You may or may not grow up to be a warrior, little Ashla, but by all the gods of Yokuda, you are a Redguard woman, and you will live your life like one."_ He had said that five years ago, when she was fourteen. Things had been different back then. The Houses of Hammerfell had united, and were finding victory at every turn against the Dominion and their Thalmor. The Empire may have fallen, but Hammerfell stood tall as a symbol of defiance for the rest of Tamriel. For the first time in decades it seemed to the nine provinces that there was hope for resistance against the elven Thalmor and their armies. But then the war came to the lands to the east of Murkwasa, and many of the young men and women of her village-including her older brother and sister- had been called upon to fight, and retake the great city of Sentinel. Her parent's farm, meanwhile, grew increasing poor, as the local lord called on more taxes, more sacrifices to win the war. They were among the poorest in the village- their land was little better than a rocky dustbowl. They had struggled in the hot sun day after day to feed themselves, working with tools and spades until her hands were rubbed raw. She remembered sitting behind their hut, and popping the blisters on hands, knowing that they would simply return the next day. She did not despair- this was her lot in life, and she would make the best of it- but still, it was a rough life of unending labor, and often fruitless toil. Her had father tried to teach her the warrior ways in the winter of that year, the art of shutting out all emotion, and achieving ultimate focus, becoming a vessel of the mind, but she could never achieve the state of focus that her father desired. Her mind wandered too quickly, and she felt things too much, too intensely to totally shut out her environment, and her passions. When spring came, things had begun to look up, until bandits attacked her home, beat her mother senseless, and then stole their savings. Although her dear mother recovered, she was never quite the same. Things only got worse once her brother and sister came home- her brother with only one leg, and her sister's mind broken by what she had seen. Forced to feed two extra mouths when they could barely manage with three, Ashla remembered with agony the days of starvation in which there was no food to be found. It was her mother who at last broke her the news- they had sold her maiden contract. She was to be married off to a prosperous cobbler in Rihad, in return for a sum of precious gold. She remembered that she had been shocked angered at the news- what made her brother and sister more worthy of a free and happy life than she? Redguard marriage amounted to a slavery contract for a poor woman like her- her family had nothing to pay a dowry, so Redguard custom stated that she would pay through labor- and she had no desire to spend the rest of her life slaving away for some damn cobbler to pay off her parents debts. Though her parents tried to explain, saying that she would be provided for in Rihad, and would live better there than at home, Ashla simply seethed. She still thought of it as a betrayal, even as she lay on the cold boards of her carriage, weeks later. The rest was history- the sellsword that had knocked on her hut's door a week after the news was broken, saying he was here to escort her- the long journey over the rocky desert southwards- and at last, two days from Rihad, the dagger, stolen from the sellsword while he slept, held at his throat while she stole his provisions and horse, before making a break for the east, towards Skyrim. As she tried to cross the mountains, she was caught by the Stormcloaks, who were suspicious of her, and was later caught up in the Imperial ambush. Captured once, only to have her capturers captured themselves. There was probably some sort of irony in that. And yet here she was, lying on rotting wagon hay, back and head rested against the wall, trying to reconcile herself with death. "_Will it hurt_?", she wondered again and again. "_How will my mother and father react when they find out? With the shame due to a runaway bride, or with the grief of loving parents who had lost their daughter?"_ she wondered just as often. She tried to still her breathing, and calm down, as her father had taught her, to face her death calmly, but try as she might, she couldn't deny that she was terrified, a fear that gripped her soul and covered all her thoughts. She felt her eyes wet with tears, tears for the happy days that would never come. She clasped her hands together, and began a prayer to Tu'whacca, Guardian of the Far Shores, in the hopes that she might gain these things in the next world, if not in this one. _Too young…. Far too young….._ "Lord Tu'whacca, son to the Tall Papa, I beg you to hear my plea….." she whispered to herself. But as she said these words, something awakened within her, some spark took hold of its tinder, and within seconds, she felt a roaring blaze in her heart. She opened her eyes, and broke out of the melancholy revelry she had fallen into. "_I'm not going to die. They can posture all they want, they can tie me up and put me on the headsman's block, I'm not going to die, damn it! I'm going to live- I'm going to see all those days, and to Oblivion with anyone who stands in my way!" _The fire burned in her for a moment, before she at last said, "Forgive me, my Lord, for I will not have the privilege of seeing your blessed realm just yet." As she finished her prayer, they entered a small town- Ralof was calling it Helgen, something about a girl from here he had been sweet on, and something else about juniper berries. It didn't really matter to Ashla- she was looking for a way out, an escape route, anything that might get her out of here. The thief, having realized his fate, was crying, and pleading to the gods for mercy. "_Poor fool."_ she thought to herself. She was up and out of the carriage now, into the courtyard, where the headsman lay waiting, with his block and axe. The Imperials were listing off the names of the condemned- apparently someone important was among the prisoners. She was right- they did think she was a Stormcloak. One by one, she saw the others calmly walk up to block, and have their heads separated from their bodies. About five men in, the thief tried to run, and was filled full of arrows before he got ten feet. "_So much for that idea." _she thought to herself, before hearing the dreaded words, as the Legate shouted, "Next, the Redguard lass." One of the Legionnaires responded, "But sir, she's not on the list…" An angry glare passed between the two, before the Legate answered, "I said, next prisoner." Ashla felt the prod of a spear as she was herded to the chopping block. "_Damn it! Is there no way out of this? There's always a way out." _she thought to herself desperately. She looked all the around the village, desperately searching for some way to run before the terrible crescent of steel took her future away as it had so many others. Her search was in vain- there were Legionarres everywhere, and there was no way to run without being shot full of steel. As she kneeled down, putting her head unto the block, she realized that all her defiance and fire was for nothing- she really was going to die. One again, a few tears brushed her cheek. The Elven priest who gave them their rites muttered to her, "It's alright. It'll be like going to sleep. Arkay be with you." Those were the last words she heard before a terrible black shape landed on the tower in front of her, and a force like nothing she had ever felt before hit her on her in her stomach, sending her flying backwards almost ten feet. By the time she had recovered, all hell had broken loose- most of the town was on fire, bolts of flame were pouring from the sky like rain, and the Legion was fighting for its life. They were screaming, "Dragon!" although surely such a thing was impossible- the dragons were a mere myth. And yet, there it was, a great black winged beast, maw spewing flame at the defenders. He turned, and looked straight at Ashla, red eyes burning with hate, and for a moment, Ashla thought she was going to be killed by this beast, left as a blackened corpse in this foreign land so far from home. But then a barrage of arrows from those Legion who still fought pierced his hide, and the beast screamed with fury, turning back to his quarries. Corpses lay all around her, old and young, soldier and villager. The beast's power was terrible, and it cared not whether those it killed bore arms against it. The screams of the dying and the moans of the wounded filled the air, and the great wings and claws of that terrible dragon darkened the sky. But Ashla had already decided she was not going to die. She ran to one of the Legion's corpses, charred almost to ashes by the strength of the dragon's flame, and grabbed the one part of him that was not blackened beyond recognition- his dagger. And once a Redguard has a dagger, nothing is out of her reach. She cut her bonds and gag, and simply ran, out into the woods, not caring the destination, leaving behind that terrible, terrible day, along with the black beast with the awful red eyes.

Ashla slipped very slowly out of her chair, and began to fall, face first, unto the floor. It seemed that everything was is slow motion, the figure of her murderer rushing up at one-tenth speed in her vision. As she fell, she felt the bloody knife in her heart slip out of her chest, leaving those brown eyes there, holding it, shaking. The pain began to set in as well, creeping through the shock, pain the likes of which she had not felt since those first few, tumultuous days, without any friends, fighting tooth and nail to survive….

The closest city to Helgen was called Whiterun, or least that was what the last hovel she had passed through had told her. She had no money- or any cold weather clothes for that matter, and it was freezing. She had grown up in the warm sands of the desert, and was unused to Skyrim's biting cold. She shivered, and rubbed her hands together as she stepped over the dead trunk of a tree. After a while, she came to another slope, and stumbled down it, hungry after almost two days without food. As she reached the bottom, and looked up, she saw for the first time the city of Whiterun, a few miles distant, on a hill near the mountains, with golden plains stretching endlessly behind it, great peaks looming in the distance. As she staggered towards it-or at least in its general direction- her first thought was that its buildings were made of wood, not clay, like in her homeland. In Hammerfell, a wooden building was a sign of extreme wealth, and almost decadence, for not only was wood expensive, it showed that the owner of the home was willing to rebuild and repair it once the wood rotted. A city like Whiterun looked strange to her, and alien. About three hours later, the gate guard allowed her to pass into the city, after questioning her about the dragon attacks. They told her to go straight to the Jarl- apparently he was some sort of king- with any information she had. But she didn't feel like going to a palace to wait upon a king's whim- she was finding a place to sleep. She found a place behind a thatcher's hut, where he dumped all his bad straw. She curled up in it, and let the last two weeks roll over her. For the first time in all that time, she was safe, but for how long? It had been days since she had eaten, and she was going to need money if she was going to get to- where was she going, exactly? She couldn't go back home, certainly. The Redguards dealt no more kindly with runaway brides than the Imperials did with rebels. In fact, the rest of Hammerfell was out of the question too- the whole province had gone to hell, as the war ate up its already sparse land and scarce resources. She would prefer to stay out of any battles, if she was going to try to start a new life somewhere- which seemed to be her only option at this point. Well, if she wanted a quiet place to settle down and start a farm, far away from that damn cobbler she had never seen, where her traitor parents couldn't find her, and she could be free of war and poverty, Skyrim certainly didn't seem to be the place. Since she had entered the province two days before, she had been captured twice by rival armies, had her head on the chopping block, and born witness to what appeared to be a genuine dragon attack- that great black beast with the maw that brought fiery death and the terrible, terrible red eyes. She shuttered at the thought of those eyes, and tried to forget them as she drifted off to sleep. In the morning, she awoke to the sounds of the city all around her, shops opening up in the square, some selling vegetables, others the "Freshest Venison in Skyrim!" The sounds of a blacksmith rang from closer to the gate, and people began to emerge from their odd, wooden, triangular houses. City guards began to go about their rounds, coming from the barracks which seemed to be situated on top of the hill, as part of some palace structure, presumably where the Jarl lived. She wondered for a moment if she should tell this foreign king what she knew about Helgen. But she didn't care about the Jarl, or even his people really. What she needed right now was money, and she needed it fast. But where could a Redguard make money in a cold land like this? Perhaps as a serving girl in one of the taverns- she had a quick vision of herself absentmindedly pouring mead for groups of barbaric Nords, while some old hag screeched at her from the kitchen. It would be truly humiliating…. But she had to start somewhere. She walked into the first tavern she came to- a place called the Bannered Mare, and strode past the warm bodies of the drunks who hadn't quite made it out the night before. It was a nice enough building, made of wood like every other structure in the strange town, with a few tables, large barrels of mead, and a wooden loft thatched with hay. There was no one about, and Ashla wondered if she should simply come back later, when the owner was back from whatever he or she was doing. Probably not- it was tough enough to work up the courage to ask someone else for a job, much less to do it twice. She stepped carefully over the body of some Dunmer mercenary, and caught the attention of the owner rather spectacularly when one of her boots caught on one of the Dunmer's armor straps, and she came crashing down to the floor. By the time the owner- an old Nord woman with kind eyes- came running out of a side room, Ashla was on her feet and brushing herself off, trying to look as dignified as possible. She walked up to her, looked her in the eye, and asked her, in as straight a face as possible, "My name is Ashla, of Hammerfell. I have no money, and am looking for a job. It doesn't matter how much you pay me- anything is better than nothing." The woman looked her up and down, from her worn boots and traveling cloak, to her foreign face. When she spoke, her voice was deep, and rich, reminding her of the chestnuts her father had brought back once from High Rock, which they had roasted and eaten. They were the most delicious things she had ever tasted. "Another refugee? I've already got a Redguard serving girl- but perhaps I find some small job for you. Just don't expect this to be permanent, alright? You start tonight." Ashla breathed a sigh of relief. At last, she was getting somewhere.

Twelve hours later, Ashla was turning in her resignation. It had been the most disgraceful and humiliating experience of life, second only, of course, to the reason she was here in the first place. At first it had been alright- the patrons were respectful enough, mostly made up of farmers coming into market, dodging in and grabbing a quick drink. But as the evening ran on, the revelers arrived. They drank mead in copious amounts, and kept Ashla busy the whole night keeping their mugs full. Saadia, the other Redguard woman that Hulda, her employer, had spoken of, was busy roasting meat over the central fire for dinner. Ashla desperately wanted to talk with her, though she never found the time- Hulda kept her busy, running out into the hut for more mead, and then pouring it endlessly into the cups of increasingly drunk patrons. It was humiliating to smile and submissively obey when drunkards yelled at her from across the room for more mead, or when Hulda told her to clean up the mess she had made when she dropped her tray, (which happened more than once) but she had expected that- all in all, the evening was going quite well, until things came crashing down. As she rushed to fill the Dunmer mercenary from the morning's cup, she felt a stinging pain in her nether regions, and looked down to find that one of the male patrons had slapped her on the butt. Ashla seethed, and tried to keep her anger and indignation under control, focusing on her breathing as her father had taught. As was usual, she failed miserably, just keeping herself from flooring the patron right then and there. Instead, she managed to keep her anger under control just enough to walk up to him, grab him by the ear, and whisper, very quietly; "You will never do that to me, or any other server again. Ever. Do you understand what I say? You will also get up, right now, and apologize for what you just did. It was not welcome. If you need further proof of that, I can show you exactly what a Redguard can do with a piece of kitchen cutlery, starting with what a meatknife does to your nose. Am I clear?" The man went back to his drink, muttering something about women, and how they took everything the wrong way. Hulda pulled her aside a moment later, into the storage hut. "What was that back there, exactly?" she asked, her tone carrying a hint of ice. "What do you mean- He touched me. Violated me. I think he's lucky I didn't kill him." Ashla defiantly responded. Hulda lowered her voice a notch, and shot back forcefully, "I don't know how you do things back in Hammerfell, but here, my first concern is the happiness of my customers. I don't want it getting out that my servers give lip to the customers. Of course I get why you're angry- any girl would be. But as long as they don't go any further, you are to grimace and bear it, do you understand?" She grabbed hold of her shoulders, and Ashla could hear a hint of fear in her voice, one she didn't understand. Suddenly, Ashla saw a wholly different picture of Hulda. She no longer saw merely the kind woman who had given her fresh clothes and food, though she was there too. Instead, she saw a woman who did whatever it took to get by, even if that meant bowing and scraping to whoever walked into her bar. She hadn't shed her dignity, not quite- she was simply afraid of losing the gift of survival that the people of Whiterun had given her. Her dignity was tied to her affluence, and how others thought of her. Her position as a pillar of the community was her honor. It wasn't that she was an unscrupulous or unkind woman- far from it. She was warm and kind and honest. The fact was that she had simply confused what she wanted with others expected of her. "_My god,"_ Ashla thought to herself, "_Why? Why did she do this to herself? How does she bear it?_" But then she looked at Hulda, and realized she was happy in her current state, or at least thought she was. Maybe she had forgotten what dignity really felt like. Or maybe this is what settling down and starting an "honest" life did to people. Maybe people forgot what made them happy, or brought them honor, and bowed to what others told them should. "_If this is so, I want no part of it," _she realized, shocked. "_I could never live like this, no matter how badly I told myself I wanted it." _Ashla breathed in deeply, and closed her eyes, as she often did when she was thinking. At last she said, "Hulda, you are a kind and wonderful woman, and in reverence to that fact, I will finish my work here tonight. I'll take my pay, and then I think I'll start looking for another job. I'm simply not cut out for this "serving girl" act- and that's what it is, an act, because I'm sure as hell no servant- and I think I could find better employment elsewhere. So thank you Hulda, for all you have done for me. I will be out of your hair soon. Wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation, would I?" Ashla brushed off her roughspun dress, and walked back into the Tavern. A moment later, as Ashla was fetching another bottle of ale, Hulda walked back in, and looked at her, wordlessly. As she got back to work, Ashla found that she was now conscious of a difference in the air of the tavern. It was there before, she just hadn't noticed it. Every single person in the room was like Hulda. From the shopkeepers, to farmers, all had given up their dignity in the name of someone else's definition of honor. From the farmer who moved his fingers quickly under the table, before breathing a wisp of flame into a cup, warming his now cold mead, who perhaps once had ambitions to go to a great magical university and become an archmage, to the other Redguard server, Saadia, who took the appraising stares and commanding shouts of the patrons with a smile and a slight bow. Every single one of them had given something up that they needn't have. As she poured an ale for a Bosmer, who was apparently trying to commit suicide judging from the number of times she had refilled his clay mug, she once again felt a sting on her buttocks. She whirled around, to find the same, idiotic, drunken stare as before. This time, she didn't even try to control herself. Her fist came down, and landed on the side of his jaw. She heard a snap- probably bone, but it didn't really matter at this point. He had fallen out of his chair with the force of the blow, and was just starting to stagger back up, clenching his face, when she followed up with punch to his stomach, which flattened him back unto the ground. He yelled, and blood began to trickle out between his fingers on his face. It appeared that one of his teeth had either been knocked out by her punch, or had punctured one of his blood vessels. With a boot planted on the drunk's throat, she grabbed one of his ankles, stepped off his neck, and began to drag him out the door, depositing him squarely in a patch of mud, before walking back into the tavern. Stunned silence greeted her, and Hulda looked as pale as a vampire. She walked up to the old woman and stated, "I think it would be best if I went home early, don't you agree?" She grabbed her robe, and walked right out the door.

That night was spent huddled under a tree, cursing her idiocy, and cursing the drunken foolishness of the man in the bar, who, judging by the fact that there were no guards walking up to her and arresting her, had either been loath to admit that he had been beaten to ground by a serving girl, or had sobered up a bit, and figured that he had deserved it. Either way worked fine for Ashla, as she sat and tried to think of how she could live that wouldn't involve bowing and scraping like a slave- after last night's realizations, farming was out of the question. She had seen the hunted, vacant looks on the farmers in the village market back in Hammerfell, but she had never until now understood what they meant. Farmers were stuck in their ways- once you put a hoe to soil, your freedom and dreams broke up along with the earth. You were tied to that land, as that land gave you sustenance. She thought of the day before, and its trials and revelations. She thought of the people in the tavern the night before, who had looked free, and who had held the haunted look of those who had given in to society. Out of all the people there, only one group looked truly happy to Ashla, and she at last determined t join their ranks. She stepped up from underneath her tree, and walked back into the Bannered Mare, head held high, showing those patrons who remained that she was not one to be trifled with, if the night before hadn't convinced them enough. She walked up to Hulda, who startled a little when she saw her, and gritted her teeth. She began to say something, when Ashla slammed her dagger- the one from Helgen- down on the notched wooden table before her. "I'm looking for mercenary work. Got any leads?"

Ashla was snapped out of her reverie by the feeling of her cheek hitting the cold, stone floor. It felt like ice was pulsing through her veins, and she felt increasingly lightheaded. She summoned the strength to turn her head and look at Serana, who had just cast a spell at her assailant, sending her- it was definitely a her- crashing against the far wall. She heard the dining hall door crash open, and the sounds of steel on steel echoed through her brain, following by a scream that sounded like Valdimar. Everything was starting to go black, and she felt an awful terror clench her heart.

She had to run-had to get away. If she stopped, for even a single moment, the thing would catch her, and then she would die a horrible death, just like Sivel-Ka and Ogmir. The mercenary trade had gone well enough, in the beginning, before things had gone horribly wrong. She had started with small jobs- intimidation, pest control, guard duty on some rich man's warehouse, that sort of thing- and she had gotten together a small sum of gold, with which she bought leather armor, a steel dagger, and a strong hunting bow. "_With these,_" she had thought at the time, "_I can take bigger jobs, get more pay, and get out of here faster." "Well, I've gotten my wish." _She thought bitterly as she turned another corner, leapt over a collapsed pillar, hit the ground running, and continued to flee through the seemingly endless passages and halls of the tomb. She could hear it behind her, always just one corner away from catching up to her, and ending her life just like her friends. But she was tiring quickly, and the black horror which pursued her did not. They had come upon the key to this tomb- a Dragon's Claw made of some sort of shiny metal- while guarding a trade caravan on the way to the snowy city of Windhelm, in the far east of Skyrim. It was Ashla's first "real" job as a mercenary, and she felt she had performed quite well compared to her more experienced companions, an Argonian from Morrowind named Sivel-Ka, and the seasoned ex-Stormcloak warrior Ogmir. Together they had fended off two attacks by highwaymen on the roads, killing seven in all. Ashla was surprised, as always, by how uncannily accurate she was with the bow, and both her companions praised her for it. Once they had reached Windhelm, they were freed from their contract. Having become quite good friends on the road, the three agreed to form a mercenary band, and they began looking for work. Ogmir bought the Dragon Claw off a trader, and said she recognized it from an old Nord legend from the area- that he who held the claw could open a vault filled with untold wealth. They researched the area, and located the tomb of which the legend spoke. Within a day, they had arrived, and the tomb's door opened when the Dragon Claw was placed against it, just as the legend had said. Inside, they found very few riches- a few trinkets scattered on the floor, nothing more. But soon, they had arrived in a large room, dominated by a raised platform, on which a coffin sat. When Ogmir investigated it to see what was inside, the lid of the coffin had shot off and that- thing- had risen from its depths. It floated above the ground, and had the shape of a man- though this it was most certainly not. It had on a piece of armor, which looked like the scales of a dragon, from which two arms protruded. But the most terrible thing of all was the mask- a terrible mask of jade, which struck fear into her heart. It turned, very slowly, to face Ogmir. He stepped back, and began to say something, when the thing raised its hand, and Ogmir disappeared into a column of fire. Sivel-Ka, hissing, drew her sword and charged the beast- running straight into a wall of flame, conjured with the flick of the ancient thing's wrist. She fell to the floor, charred and steaming, little wisps of smoke rising from her open mouth and sharp teeth. Then the being turned, and its terrible, awful mask of jade was facing right towards her. Ashla screamed, and ran. It had been almost an hour since she had rested- did these passages never end? The tomb was truly massive- or maybe she was looping herself around the same bends over and over again- turn left, turn right, hop over debris, turn left again- over and over, more times than she could count, the death with eyes of jade always just one step behind her. At last, she saw a door up ahead, she sprinted up it, legs aching with strain, and burst through it. She looked around, frantically, and found an iron door bar, which she jammed through the waiting slots. She heard a whisper on the other side of the door, and smoke began to curl through the gaps in the door. "_It's just toying with me," _she realized with a shock. "_It could burn right through the door faster than blinking. So why doesn't it? Does it simply enjoy my pain? What is this thing, that hunts men like deer?" _Her gaze washed over the room again, searching for something- anything- that could help her fight this menace. The room was some sort of embalming chamber, as evidenced by the hooks and knives which sat neatly on shelves next to a large stone slab. For some reason, as drum sat in the corner, and the stale scent of spices and herbs clung to the air. At last, she found what she was looking for- a door, carefully concealed in the wall, a small gap in the stones giving itself away. She walked up to it, and pushed. The door swung open upon its pivot, as if it had been oiled yesterday. Beyond, a set of wooden stairs- extremely rotten, but still preserved somehow, through all the ages, much like the rest of the tomb's yellow cobblestone architecture. A slight breeze wisped down from the top of those stairs- which meant a way out must be nearby! In her terrified and crazed state, those stairs looked to be a gift from the gods themselves. She clambered up them on her hands and knees, breaking one of he steps in two and just keeping herself from falling through. At the top there was a door, from which the breeze emanated. "_At last, I can get out of this hellish place!" _she thought to her herself. But just then, she heard the door in the other room break down. The thing screeched, a scream that chilled her blood. She ran for the door, and once she found to be jammed, drew her short sword and used its pommel to break through the dry, brittle wood. She at last made a hole big enough for her to fir through, and leapt through- only to barely stop herself from falling off the sheer cliff on the other side. She was now standing on a crag, jutting out of a massive cliff. She looked down. _"Bad idea. This is a really bad time to figure out that I'm afraid of heights. Or maybe I'm only afraid of falling from them when an ancient horror is on my tail, bent on murdering me. Doesn't matter. Don't think of the height. Think of survival."_. At the bottom of the cliff was a winding river, but many sharp rocks stuck up through the rapids, and she didn't think much of her chances for survival. "_Looks like I'm going to have to climb down." _She thought with distaste. She sheathed her short sword, and swung herself over the lip of the crag, her foot catching on an outcropping. She tested the area below her with her feet, and found another foothold. She placed her feet into the new outcropping, and used her hands to steady herself on another nearby. At that moment, the thing with the mask burst out of the door. She could hear it, sniffing and making that screeching noise with cut her to the marrow. "_Thank the gods above it can't see me under this ridge,"_ she thought to herself, "_Otherwise I'd be a goner._" Her hands began to burn, holding onto their ridges, but the slightest movement could give her away, and be the end of her. It felt like an eternity, listening to that thing moan and whine, barely fifteen feet above her, afraid to even breathe, or moisten her lips, for fear that she would send herself to a fiery death. After about 10 minutes, the thing gave up, and she heard the sounds of its screeching fading away, back into the passage. "_Thank the gods. I'm still alive," _she thought to herself. _"But they aren't." _she realized with a shock.She had a sudden vision of herself sitting with her friends, Sivel-Ka and Ogmir, around a fire, telling each other stories and taking swigs of mead. She had a sudden mad feeling, like she wanted to rush back into the chamber, past the thing with jade eyes, and shake her friends bodies, telling them how sorry she was before dragging them back home, back to the proper and rightful burial which both those kind hearted people deserved. Tears wet her cheeks at the thought of her old friends, which quickly gave way to anger, anger at that thing which had deprived her of them. She wanted to rush in, and stab the thing over and over and over, piercing its flesh until its body was broken, and those eyes of jade seared her soul with their fire no more. But soon, reason took over again, and reason said that she could not stand against the terrible power which dwelled within the crypt. If she tried to come back into its resting place, where her friend's bodies lay, it would become her tomb as well as theirs. And besides, even if she could somehow get her friends bodies without the thing knowing, she certainly couldn't climb down a sheer cliff while carrying them. Their corpses would molder for eternity in the blackness of that tomb, that awful thing breathing down their necks, their remains never put into coffins or lowered into the ground to the sound of crying loved ones. _"Sivel-Ka, Ogmir…. I'm sorry. So very sorry. But I can't help you now. I can only help myself, and that's what I'm going to do. But I swear, on all the gods, above and below, that you will get your rites. Your souls will go home, even if your corpses don't." _She took a moment, and seared the oath into her mind, giving her terrible purpose. She lived when they didn't, because if she had died, there would be no one left to give those two friends the rites they deserved. She breathed in, and began the long journey down the cliff, while the river lay waiting at the bottom_._


	2. Chapter 2

The blood from Ashla's chest wound began to pool around her, in a great red puddle on the floor. Screams of pain- they sounded like Valdimar's- emanated from the entryway. Serana was locked in combat with the same woman who had plunged her knife into Ashla's chest. Runa- what a brave girl- drew her knife, a gift she had given her for her tenth birthday, and charged towards the sounds of Valdimar's yells. She made her mother proud, that one. A warrior, like her mother, far too young to pay for her parent's mistakes. And where was sweet, darling Lucia? Ashla tried to lift her head, to turn it and search for the child she held so dear, but she was growing weak, and felt sleepy. The energy to search for her child simply didn't come. Her vision was growing blurry, and it was hard- so hard- to keep her eyes open. How ironic it was, she reflected, that after so many fights, so many battles, so many victories, it was a knife in the dark, at her own dinner table, in her own home that brought her down, in the same manner that she had murdered so many others, in cold blood. As she reflected on all the happy days she would not share with those she loved, she felt, for the first time, regret for the bloody deeds of her youth. As she remembered her kills, each and every one sharp in her memory, but dulling as she slipped away, she remembered her time in the Brotherhood, at her keenest edge of skill, when Emperors and Kings had fallen to her blade, whole kingdoms sent into chaos because she let loose one well placed arrow. But as she lay there, bleeding on the floor, it was one face that jumped out at her- a lovely face, astonishing actually, even through the dark haze which was rapidly spreading across her mind as her lifeblood left her body. It was the happiest face she had ever seen, all made up in bridal regalia, laughing and celebrating her marriage to the man she loved. Then suddenly she saw a very different flash of her- face locked in a scream, three arrows buried in her breast, red blood streaming across her white dress. The bridesmaids rushed to help her, but it was too late. Their mistress walked in the Void. It was only now, as Ashla herself felt the assassin's knife, that she asked herself, "_Why?_" What had given her the right to take away all those happy days with her husband? Why her- why was she killed? Because she was related to someone important? How was that reason enough? Suddenly, Ashla saw all her crimes laid out before her, and she would have cried, if she had the strength to cry. As she began to cough blood onto the stones before her, she remembered each and every one of those crimes, which made the palaces of Skyrim run red with blood, all in the name of her dark Mother and Father.

It had been such a simple step, but it meant so much more. The distinction between mercenary and hired killer was a subtle one, at best, but the vagueness of the line did not rob it of meaning. She had been starving on the streets of Windhelm, after escaping from that tomb, and was unable to find any work on the caravans to get out of the city, because it was in the dead of winter, and Windhelm was up in the mountains. Gods she hated this city- its black cobblestone walls and streets, the freezing snow and ice, and the even more icy glares of the Nords who obviously thought an unmarried Redguard girl shouldn't be poking around in their city. It was a long winter, trapped within the city's walls, without much work, or excitement. But as she walked around the streets, doing odd jobs for whoever would pay, (and more than one burglary, when such work did not present itself- always on those who didn't need the extra money, and never taking anything _too _valuable) she heard rumors- the occasional whisper in a market stall, or mentioned in passing during a priest's sermon. A boy- his name was Aventus, or something like that- had returned to the city, after being carted off to an orphanage down south the year before. He had locked himself into his old home, and had begun to do…. something. This is where the tales grew truly wild. Many reported odd chanting and strange lights coming from his house at night. Some said he was worshipping Daedra, and making with them dark pacts and deals. Some said that he cavorted with the spirits of the Soul Cairn, and served them, in return for the souls of his mother and father. But by far the most common rumor was that he was performing the Black Sacrament- an ancient and terrible ritual to a dark goddess of death and vengeance known in fearful whispers as the Night Mother, in the hopes that she would send her children, the Dark Brotherhood, to sow terror and death amongst his enemies. Against her better judgment, she was intrigued- they had stories about the Dark Brotherhood in Hammerfell as well, dark ones in which whole countries were brought to their knees with a single well placed arrow. They had always terrified her, these dark being which were one with the night, and whose teeth and claws were focused on one terrible cause- death, and destruction. So one day, on a delivery errand from the docks to a shop in the city, (the shopkeeper called her a "damn desert-rat" and sent her away, convinced that she was inflating the price, skimming off the top, "Just like the rest of your thieving kind." Thanks to this little fact, she was forced to walk all the way back down to the docks and get the writ of debt singed by the dockmaster himself.) she found herself in front of the Aretino house, where the Aventus boy supposedly lived. She looked at it- it looked like a perfectly normal house, albeit a bit larger than the other houses on the street, and a bit too close for comfort to the Grey Quarter. There were no burning runes of Daedric origin inscribed on the door, and try as she might, she could hear no chanting coming from within. She stretched and strained to get a look through one of the windows, and saw a few pieces of furniture, mostly stacked in the back. There was one table, turned upside down in the center of the room. She could see no footsteps in the fine dust which coated the floor. For all the world, it looked deserted- she could find no evidence of habitation. But still there was something…. odd about it. She had heard many people say they felt uncomfortable about the place, like there was an aura of wrongness about it. "_But that's not it. " _she thought to herself. It was hard to place this feeling, but it felt…. welcoming. Suddenly, she remembered that she was on an errand, and that her dockmaster would probably be as red as a beet by time she got back with the bad news. "_Better be on my way, before he bursts a blood vessel."_

She returned that evening, with a few lock picks she had fashioned out of scraps of wood and metal she had found around the city. It had been a bad day- the dockmaster had yelled at her for almost ten minutes before signing the form proving that the amount requested was in fact his valid selling price, before ordering Ashla to head back, writ of debt in hand. Once she returned, the dockmaster refused to pay her agreed wage for the day, instead giving her half pay, for "damn laziness". "But its not my fault that the shopkeeper doesn't like Redguards!" she protested above the cacophony of shouting and crashing crates that was the Windhelm docks. "Woman, why should I care who the shopkeeper does and doesn't like? I asked you to do a job, you spineless sandworm, and it took you almost two hours. You should have told the damn shopkeeper exactly what the price was, and roughed him around a bit if he didn't want to pay. Understand? I have to run the whole of these docks, and I sure as hell can't stop to help out every courier who can't get a customer to pay up. That's your job. If you can't do it, then don't come back." he roared back. "Maybe I won't!" she declared, and stormed off. A hour or two later, here she was, at the door of the Arentino house again, not entirely certain why she was there. "_Thank god it's almost spring," _she thought to herself absentmindedly as she inspected the house, this time from every angle. An Argonian dock porter nodded at her as he passed by, but Ashla paid no attention. She was too wrapped up in her own thoughts, and in the feeling of welcome that the Arentino house gave her. "_Once it's spring, the ice will melt in the passes and I can get out of here. Maybe I'll sign on as a guard for one of the caravans headed back to Whiterun. From there, maybe I can get on as a mercenary, or even a porter on one of the trade groups headed south, to Cyrodiil. I've had enough of ice for a lifetime, and I hear Cyrodiil is nice in the summer." _As she completed her loop around the house, she looked around calmly, and saw no guards in sight. _"In any case, I heard the Arentinos were pretty rich, before they died. Seeing as this house is deserted, and they certainly don't need any of that wealth anymore, I might… pop in. See if the coroner left anything behind." _She knelt down next to the door, and inserted one of her homemade lock picks into the lock. After about twenty minutes, with two broken lock picks, the lock clicked open, and the door creaked on its hinge, swinging open. She had found that she had a talent for lock picking in her extended stay in Windhelm- locks spoke to you, if you knew how to listen. They wanted to be opened, and they only needed that little push to set them free. She silently stepped into the house, and quietly as possible, closed the door behind her. After taking a moment to calm down, she began to take in her surroundings. There was a room to the left- some sort of dining hall, which she had seen through the window earlier. "_I didn't see anything sellable in there, but it never hurts to check-"_ she suddenly froze, as she heard a murmuring from the second floor, up the stairs to her right. While she couldn't make out the words, it was clearly the same few words repeated again and again- some sort of chant. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumors of Daedra worship she had heard throughout the city. "_I really don't want to get caught up with anything that has to do with the Daedra- I like my skin on my body, thank you very much." _She made a move back to the door, and reached up to the handle, but something stopped her. She suddenly felt incurably curious as to the words of that chant, and as she stood there for a moment, just listening to the murmur from upstairs, she felt that feeling- that comfort in her soul again, which she had felt earlier, but stronger, like this was the source of the calm throughout her body. She crept slowly up the stairs, straining her ears to catch unto the words of the chant, and at the top of the stairwell, she could at last understand what was being said. From her angle, she could see only a shadow on the wall- presumably the Aventus boy- with a knife he was plunging into the ground, again and again and again, and he sang that chant.

"Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother,

Send your child unto me,

For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized,

In blood and fear."

The words of the chant ignited that little something in her soul, and she felt hot and cold all over, the creeping tingling feeling lodged in her every limb and organ. She felt that this chant was _right, _as if she was meant to hear it. Suddenly, like a great wind over the plains of her homeland, she felt all her fear and anxiety melt away. Everything was going to be okay. She felt a sense of purpose that went along with this chant, a terrible, dark purpose that overrode her senses. She gasped with the intensity of the feeling, stumbling backwards down one of the fine pinewood steps, and as she did, the shadowy figure paused for a moment, and rose. She could see him now- he really was just a little boy, maybe nine or ten years old. He ran towards the stairs, and saw Ashla crouched there, at the top. He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, looking rather like a codfish, before exclaiming, "You're here! You came! You actually came! That ritual- it worked! Oh, I knew it would! I did it over and over again with the knife and the….. other things," he quickly glanced over the patch of floor where he had crouched a moment before, a human skeleton, a heart, and a spring of the nightshade plant arrayed in a pattern on the ground there, before continuing quickly, "But it worked! I was here for so long…. I was wondering if the Night Mother could hear me. I was sure I was doing it right, but…. I guess it doesn't matter. Here you are, an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood! Will you take my contract?" As all the intense feeling from the moment before evaporated, Ashla was left feeling rather bewildered and overwhelmed. "_Contract? Assassin? Was this whole ritual a setup to contact the Dark Brotherhood? But what would a ten year old need with a hired killer? And why does he seem to think that I'm some sort of-" _her thoughts were cut off by another wave of chatter from the energetic young lad, "Is it money that's the problem? Cuz I have a family heirloom that supposed to be worth a lot- I could give you that if you kill Grelod the Kind. The other children won't tell- they hate her as much as I do." Ashla blinked a few times, before saying, in as calm a voice as possible, "Kid, slow down. I'm not-" before once again being interrupted by this murderous ten year old, who yelled, "You won't take my contract? Why? Isn't that what you people do? She ran the orphanage I was sent to after Ma and Pa died, down in Riften. She's called the Kind…. But she wasn't. She was terrible. To all of us. She's a monster, and she doesn't deserve to exist!" He clenched his fists, and for the first time, Ashla saw a glint in his eyes that made her realize, _"He'll really do it. My god, he really wants to kill her. What in the hell did this Grelod do to a ten year that would drive him to murder?" _ And then she felt the jerk in her soul again, and she had to steady herself against the wall. Bloodlust rose in her throat, and suddenly she found her hand curling around her knife. "_I want this." _she realized. _"I want to go to Riften, cut this Grelod's soul from her body, and then take my pay. But why? I have no quarrel with her- I have no reason to want to slit her throat while she sleeps, to poison her tea and watch as she chokes to death, to put an arrow into her back while she goes for a stroll, so why do I want to so badly? I've never killed anybody who wasn't trying to kill me. I've only ever killed two people- and that from a distance, with a bow. I'm not a killer. So why?" _She breathed deeply, and tried to dispel this new irrational, alien feeling which was not hers. But it remained, and before she knew it, her mouth had opened, and was speaking, seemingly unbidden, "Very well, I will take your little contract. Grelod the Kind will die by my hand, little boy." Suddenly, she came back to her senses, though the urge to take the contract and plunge her knife into her target's belly remained. "I'm sorry for whatever she's done to you, but are you absolutely certain that this is what you want? You'll have to live the rest of life with her blood on your hands- can you live with that?" The boy, Aventus, looked at the floor for a moment, his eyes smoldering. He whispered under his breath, barely audible, "Yes." Ashla nodded at his response, and slipped back down the stairs, into the street, and back to her cot at a local tavern, where she curled into a ball, and shook. She slept, a little bit, but woke up again and again with the same thought in her mind. "_What have I done?"_

Two months later, she stood once again before the Arentino estate. She walked calmly up to the door, and knocked. The door opened, just a crack at first, before flying open. Aventus was on the other side, and he stared at her expectantly. She straightened herself up, and finally said the words she both dreaded and relished saying. "Grelod the Kind is dead." Aventus leaped for joy, and ran back into the house chattering the whole way. He came back with some gold plate, but Ashla was already in another world. She didn't really let what she had done sink in until just then, when she finally said the words. It had been easy- she booked passage on a ship to Riften, as soon as the ice had broken, and found the Orphanage with no problem. After that it had been simple, and clean. She walked through the front door, and heard Grelod- it was quite obviously her- speaking to her "charges". "Runa?! What is this? I thought I told you that this floor was to be clean enough to eat off!" The words were followed by whacks and yells- it sounded like she was beating this "Runa" with a stick. Ashla opened the door, and walked calmly into the room. Sure enough, an old woman was busy beating a small girl- no more than eight- with a club. About ten other children were arrayed around the room, and they watched impassively, flinching with every blow, obviously having endured the same treatment many times before. The defeated, tired looks and bruises up and down their arms were evidence enough- these children were not cared for here. To her credit, the blonde child who was the target of Grelod's irrational anger did not cry out in pain, or beg for mercy- she simply clenched her fists, and endured every blow as it came. Even as she was knocked to the ground, she simply got back to her feet, and contained her anger. _She's a proud one,_ Ashla thought to herself. _Someone like her doesn't belong in a place like this. She still has her fire and passion- it hasn't burned out in this place- she hasn't given herself up to this old crone. _Suddenly, Ashla had a flashback, to a year ago in Whiterun, when she served the table for a room full of lecherous farmers and mercenaries, half drowned in their drink. She hadn't given up her pride then- she still hadn't. The child was the same. Watching this prideful young child being beaten by the witch who called herself her caretaker, she was suddenly filled with anger, and a will to kill, beyond the simple unexplainable bloodlust she had felt back in Windhelm. After a few more moments of beating, Grelod stood up and screamed at all the other children, "If you aren't willing to work, you have no place here! And let me make this abundantly clear! I don't want to hear any more of this talk about adoptions, you hear me?! Not one of you little ungrateful rats is ever going to get adopted, _ever. _Do you understand me? There is no one out there who could possibly want _you_. Besides, the world is a cruel, terrible place, and you are much better off here, learning how to work with discipline, getting your damn _laziness_ beaten out of you than in the home of some milk drinker! Now, get to bed, all of you!" After a few seconds, the small crowd of children broke up, and they began to move towards one of the side doors. Through them, Ashla could see another woman, a young and pretty Nord, putting fresh straw down on the floor, and placing blankets on top. _At least they sleep well,_ she thought to herself. After supervising for a moment, Grelod left, and opened up a door on the other side, apparently to her bedroom, and shut it. A moment later, the young Nord shut the door on the left, just as the last child filed through. She walked slowly up to Ashla, past the small, sputtering fireplace, and brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. "Hello my name is Constance Mitchell," she said politely, her tone giving away just a hint of exhaustion. "Do you need anything?" Ashla leaned against the back wall, and tried to decide what to do. _Aventus didn't mention there was another adult in the Orphanage. He assured me that the children wouldn't turn me in, but this Constance seems to be an employee of Grelod's. She'd almost certainly turn me in- and I can't afford to have the guards on my tail. Damn, I should have thought this out more before charging in here like a bull. _"Nothing much," Ashla responded, "I'm just checking your orphanage. I'm considering adoption, and this is the largest orphanage in east Skyrim. Let me ask you a few questions….. is that all right?" Constance suddenly brightened up at the mention of adoption, and immediately began to brush off her dress. "Ummmm…. Of course! Just let me get Grelod, she's probably not asleep yet…." she responded, and began to walk off, but Ashla grabbed her hand, and said, "I don't want to talk with Grelod. I have nothing to say to a child beater." Constance's face suddenly darkened again and she said under her breath, "So, you were here for….." Ashla nodded. Constance started to walk towards a group of chairs on the far side of the room, and Ashla followed, releasing the grip on her hand. "That isn't all that uncommon, you know. The children are truly miserable here, though I do my best to keep their spirits up." she said as she sat down. Ashla followed suit, and planted herself into a large padded chair. She leaned forward, towards Constance, and tried to keep herself composed. "Have you heard about Aventus Aretino? The boy from Windhelm?" she asked nonchalantly. Constance nodded, and responded, "I heard that he went back home, to Eastmarch. I heard from one of the traders that he shut himself into his old house." Ashla paused for a moment, and said, "Yes. I've spoken to him." Constance's eyes suddenly widened with concern. "Is he all right?" she asked. _Genuine concern for the children, _Ashla noted. _I really don't want to have to kill her too- she seems to be of a good sort, and I don't want this whole thing to turn into a massacre. _She felt only the urge to kill Grelod, as if there was some other force driving her, manipulating her senses. But towards Constance, she had nothing but good will. _Let's ask her a few questions, and then leave. I can't do it now, with her watching, but if I just leave, she'll be suspicious. I need to make this look normal. I can come back whenever she falls asleep. _She had no idea what was considered "normal" in an adoption home, however, so she took a wild shot in the dark.Suddenly, Ashla shifted her posture, her whole aura changing from her natural, energetic persona, to that of a shopkeeper in a concerning business negotiation."Yes, Miss Constance, he's fine. Now, I'll ask a few questions. While I intend to care for a child that I might adopt as my own, I do expect them to earn their keep. I own a farm in Whiterun, and we cannot afford to simply bring an extra mouth to feed into our home. If your employer's….. treatment of these children has damaged them in any way, how can I expect them to work?" Constance gave her a strange look, rather surprised at the change in demeanor, but her look quickly relaxed into a sort of bored resignation. _It looks like I was right- most of the people who take children from places like these are doing little more than looking for slaves. Now, if I can just keep up the act for another few minutes, I'll be out of here in no time. _"Of course, milady. Our children are very hard workers, and I have no doubt that you will be extremely pleased…"

Ashla snuck back in that night. It was almost laughably easy- everyone was asleep. Constance was passed out in the same chair she had been sitting in earlier- she was very tired and it showed. She drew her knife, and opened the door into Grelod's room, as slowly and silently as she could. She crept up to the side of her bed, and found the lump of blankets that was Grelod's sleeping form. She crept up the side of the bed, until at last she found the old woman's neck. She raised her knife, and slashed at her exposed flesh, cutting through sinew and bone, laying her neck open, watching it bleed unto the floor. Two quick slashes across her neck assured she would never breathe again. So deep was the knife in her neck that when the old woman awoke with the shock, she couldn't even scream. She just opened her mouth silently, eyes wide in shock, staring at Ashla. For a few moments, the old crone convulsed in her sheets, hands clutching at her neck, trying to keep her precious lifeblood inside her body. After about a minute, she stopped moving, and the last spark of life left her eyes. The blood from her open wound wet her sheets, spattering the whole of the bed, even now dripping unto the floor. Ashla calmly wiped her knif on a nearby cloth, and grabbed the key to the orphanage off the now deceased Grelod's nightstand, before slipping back into the hall. She left the key on Constance's lap. _Now these children will have a caretaker who deserves the name_, she thought to herself as she walked out the door. She felt strangely elated as she walked out the door, and tried to sort out her emotions. The feeling she expected were all there- apprehension and nervousness, release at having finally sated the bloodlust that had consumed her since that night in Windhelm, smugness that it had been that easy. But there was one thing she expected to be there that was noticeably absent- the crushing guilt she should have felt at taking the life of another who meant her no harm. It's absence worried her the most of all.

Aventus had been overjoyed once he had gotten the news. "One day, I'll become an assassin like you!" he said in his excited, chit-chat way. "Then I can help people all over Skyrim, just like you did! Thank you so much!..." he went on and on. Ashla wasn't listening. She was trying to get over the shock. It hadn't really sunk in that she had committed murder for coin- or rather she hadn't allowed herself to think about it. Now that it was over- her pay was in her hands, in the form of a solid gold plate- the walls of calm that she had built up around that part of her memories began to crash down. "The contract has been completed," she said, her mouth once again speaking of own accord. "May I leave now? Please. I have some…. things I need to sort out." Aventus suddenly stopped his chatter, and looked crestfallen. "But… I wanted to know about the Dark Brotherhood. About the Night Mother. Can't you stay a little while?" Ashla shut her eyes, and rubbed her temples. This was surely going to be a long night. "No, Aventus, I'm sorry." she said. "I just want to… get away from all this. Forget it ever happened. And if you're smart, you will too, because I can't get over the guilt, not guilt over the kill, but that I can't feel anything about it. I should feel guilty, I should feel awful- but I don't. And that makes me more guilty than anything. If you're smart, you'll forget this too." She patted him on his shoulder, and then left, leaving the boy speechless in the doorway.


End file.
